It is too much, Mr. Walker; I cannot bear it, indeed I cannot." And with these words, Mr. Trotter burst into a regular inundation of tears, and, flinging his arms around those of Mr. Weller, embraced him closely, in an ecstasy of joy.
"Get off!" cried Sam, indignant at this process, and vainly endeavouring to extricate himself from the grasp of his enthusiastic acquaintance. "Get off, I tell you. What are you crying over me for, you portable ingine?"
"Because I am so glad to see you," replied Job Trotter, gradually releasing Mr. Weller, as the first symptoms of his pugnacity disappeared. "Oh, Mr. Walker, this is too much."
"Too much!" echoed Sam, "I think it is too much—rayther! Now what have you got to say to me, eh?"
Mr. Trotter made no reply; for the little pink pocket handkerchief was in full force.
"What have you got to say to me, afore I knock your head off?" repeated Mr. Weller, in a threatening manner.
"Eh!" said Mr. Trotter, with a look of virtuous surprise.
"What have you got to say to me?"
"I, Mr. Walker!"
"Don't call me Valker; my name's Veller; you know that vell enough. What have you got to say to me?"
"Bless you, Mr. Walker—Weller I mean—a great many things, if you will come away somewhere, where we can talk comfortably. If you knew how I have looked for you, Mr. Weller—"
"Wery hard, indeed, I s'pose?" said Sam, drily.
"Very, very, sir," replied Mr. Trotter, without moving a muscle of his face. "But shake hands, Mr. Weller."
Sam eyed his companion for a few seconds, and then, as if actuated by a sudden impulse, complied with his request.
"How," said Job Trotter, as they walked away, "How is your dear, good master? Oh, he is a worthy gentleman, Mr. Weller! I hope he didn't catch cold, that dreadful night, idn't catch cold, sir."
